


Boxing Day Traditions

by Umbrella_ella



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas Fluff, F/M, except severus is dumb, mutual pining is mutual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:07:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28106763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umbrella_ella/pseuds/Umbrella_ella
Summary: Severus Snape did not do Christmas. Nor Boxing Day.The false cheer that accompanied cherub-red cheeks and the morning’s first snowfall was not something he ever looked forward to. His mood only soured as the Great Hall filled with the chatter of staff and students; a small group they may be, but loud nonetheless._Severus learns something new about the newest addition to staff.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
Comments: 8
Kudos: 45
Collections: Hearts and Cauldrons Gift Exchange





	Boxing Day Traditions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AmiMendal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmiMendal/gifts).



> Enjoy, I hope you like it.

Severus Snape did not do Christmas. Nor Boxing Day.

The false cheer that accompanied cherub-red cheeks and the morning’s first snowfall was not something he ever looked forward to. His mood only soured as the Great Hall filled with the chatter of staff and students; a small group they may be, but loud nonetheless.

Pomona Sprout’s eyes twinkled as she swept by him, smelling of holiday flowers, and her normally drab attire replaced by the gaudiest sweater he had ever had the displeasure of seeing. Minerva followed, chuckling heartily as Flitwick mimed a joke he was sure he never wanted to hear. Following, last, but certainly no les welcome than the others, was Professor Hermione Granger. Gone was the toothy grin and frizzy hair of her childhood, replaced by a cool, serene professionalism that Severus Snape would never admit he admired. Her arms, as always, were full of Ancient Runes marking to do, books laden with scraps of paper stuffed here and there, and he swallowed thickly as she dropped unceremoniously next to him.

“No holiday, Granger?” His throat clicked as he spoke, his hands fumbling with the napkin at his lap.

Granger— _Hermione_ , he could almost here her huff, shrill voice demanding and honeyed, _we are colleagues after all_ — Granger tightened at that, and he closed his eyes. In his old age, he was slipping. Of course she wouldn’t be on holiday, not with Weasley, nor Potter and his new wife, and most certainly not her own family. He swallowed a pang of— what? Guilt? Pity?

Severus scraped up the barest amount of black pudding and chewed slowly, deciding not to examine his thoughts on the matter. It was hardly his affair, after all, even though he was bothered by the way Granger’s brow furrowed, smoothing just as quickly at the offerings on the table before them. She had chosen an iced bun, something that Severus said nothing of, but even so, his interest was piqued.

“No, Severus," at his puzzled look, she spoke, her voice thick and slow, "Iced buns, they’re a tradition in my fam—” Hermione stopped herself, swallowing, and Severus followed the motion of her throat before looking away, “My parents would bring them home on Boxing Day, and we would eat them with our morning tea.”

_Ah, there it was._

“And you feel… compelled to continue?”

It was no secret that Hermione Granger had spent nearly two years out of contact with the British wizarding population, secreting away to the outback of Australia, searching and wishing and needing. The mere thought of that, of Granger pained and desperate and hurting made a heat creep up Severus’ neck, and he brushed the thought away with more force than necessary, his fork and knife working to spear a particularly stubborn bit of sausage.

Whatever Granger might have said then, whatever she may have admitted then was silenced, a burst of laughter had shattered the tenuous moment. Severus meted out a particularly harsh glare towards the left side of the long table, Sybil Trelawny snorting into a cup that was full of Christmas cheer.

“How is the Forest?” Granger asked, her voice measured, as though she needed Severus to change the topic, “Have you found the thestral hairs yet?”

Severus waited a beat, and then, “No, but then, they’ve retreated deeper into the forest for their winter. I expect I’ll go again tonight.”

Severus watched as Granger sipped her tea, steeling herself with a look that only ever came before awful ideas, and unbidden, the thought of stacks upon stacks of knitted hats sprung to mind, but before he can discourage her by adding that he needed no help whatsoever and he was capable of collecting potions ingredients on his own, she spoke, her voice oddly small.

“Would you— I could come with you.” She offered, and the way her eyes widened, pools of caramel pleading and soft, a thin, pink lip drawn betwixt worrying teeth, made something in Severus slide together, and it was with ease that he acquiesced.

“Very well, but I expect you at the front hall no later than eleven sharp tonight. And wear something warm. Bluebell flames do very little to quell the chill.”

Granger smiled, a pretty flush blooming across her cheeks, and returned to her breakfast. Severus did not eat any more, simply choosing to watch as Granger’s hands rested only millimetres from his own.

* * *

Severus waited in the hall, cloak drawn up around his shoulders, and scarf hanging limply upon thin shoulders. Already he regretted this, and his neck ached with the cold, a sharp reminder of exactly who he had once been— his ruminations were broken by a muffled curse and a pale hand springing out from the dark, and Severus caught it, because of course Hermione Granger would trust him to save her from her own mistakes.

Foolish girl.

He ignored the warmth of the hand in his own and helped the young woman right herself, her eyes dark and glittering in the winter night. Her mistake, as it turned out, was a cloak draped about her shoulders, comically long and dragging on the stone floor as she fluffed her hair from her face. She looked ridiculous. Severus felt his heart twist, and he wordlessly trudged forward, tugging the great oak doors open. The gale of winter wind tore a gasp from his throat, and his hand came up to wrap his scarf more securely.

The path into the forest was arduous, Severus stumbling a few times, but Granger steadied him, her hands sure as they found his own. Severus tried not to think about the way her hands were soft in his own, about the way she matched his pace, slow and ungainly though it was, and he was grateful for it. The forest was dark at night, particularly on these slow December nights, the great trees leaning in closer, and it was as though the forest intended to swallow them.

“Why are you here, Granger?” He hadn’t meant to sound ungrateful, but the bite in his voice was blunted by the flurry of wind that swirled in the night air.

“Hermione,” she insisted, “thestrals are beautiful creatures, Severus. I like them.”

The silence stretched out between them, and it was cold and harsh and unyielding, and Severus wished for the warmth of his quarters.

“Beauty in death is not something a young woman like yourself should trouble with,” Severus pressed on, his voice quiet and tired.

Granger seemed quiet, though Severus was no fool. She would not quiet for long.

“How old were you? When you could see them, I mean.” Granger spoke, hesitantly, though there was no other question to ask in a moment like this.

“I was no older than you yourself were the first time, I suppose,” and Severus swallowed the bile at the thought of blood-stained carpet and fear-stricken faces, and focused on the glitter of freshly fallen snow. Her hand was warm again, and he took it then, and this time— this time he doesn’t let go.

It was nearly two in the morning by then, that odd winter darkness grey and glittering and setting the sky alight, moonlight dappling the clearing, and the pair watched carefully from the small ridge above. The thestrals were indeed, beautiful, though he would never admit it out loud, and Hermione laughed, sharp and soft and quiet all at once when his stomach protested his lack of supper, and Severus’ heart clenched at the sound. She rummaged around her rucksack, and triumphantly presented a bag. Inside was a lone iced bun. He thought of family, of his father and mother, of wars and of wounds, and of a woman who saw more than said, and swallowed thickly. His voice struggled out, and it was as though his mouth were full of marbles. “Must I get you a gift, Hermione?”

Hermione turned then, her eyes watching him intently.

“This, here, this is a gift. Beauty and wonder and life. You just have to look for it.”

And, he thought, as he watched her, pale skin beautiful and smooth in the moonlight, he had found it. He kissed her then, and she was soft and warm and wanting and breathy.

Perhaps exceptions were to be made for Boxing Day after all.


End file.
